


(falling in love) in three-quarter time

by WickedForGood13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, The Morning After The Night Before, Unrequited Love, it seems I don't know how to NOT write angst, or so it seems, sorry for all the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8538907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedForGood13/pseuds/WickedForGood13
Summary: Dancing lessons with Sherlock lead to more than John could have anticipated — or ever dared to dream was possible.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HarmonyLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : I own nothing. The title was taken from lyrics to the song “Christmas Waltz,” originally sung by Frank Sinatra. 
> 
> **Author's note** : I thought I should post this before the new season airs in January (it’s about damn time!). It takes place somewhere in the middle of “The Sign of Three”— up to you as to when. I’ve (clearly) elected to ignore the events of “His Last Vow,” although you’re welcome to speculate as to how my story would affect the show. 
> 
> Finally, this fic was written for and is dedicated to [HarmonyLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonyLover), a lovely beta and an even more wonderful friend. I know my story can’t make up for the devastating election that you and I have just gone through, but I can only hope that perhaps it will cheer you up a bit. Happy birthday, hon. I love you! :)

“He’s in love with you, you know,” says Mary.

“Really? You want to go into this _now_?” John quirks a brow at her; perhaps in amusement, she thinks. His lips are twitching, like he wants to smile but doesn’t think it’s appropriate.

“It’s physically painful—to me, and to everyone who knows you and Sherlock—to watch you two continue to ignore the Elephant In The Room. Our wedding is breaking his heart, John. Fix it; fix _him_.”

“I’m not denying that I love him, Mary. You saw how I was when I thought I’d lost him—how close I came to eating my own gun—and I never want to go back to feeling that way. But what about the commitment I’ve made to you?”

“There’s room for more than just us in this marriage, wouldn’t you say? If Sherlock wants in, he’s more than welcome.”

“D’you mean it, Mary? Truly? You’re not just saying that because, I don’t know. . . you feel guilty, or responsible in some way for my happiness?”

She flinches, imperceptibly, but it’s there all the same. John wonders at her reaction.

“Your happiness is my happiness, John,” she says. “And if this will make you happy—if _Sherlock_ will make you happy—then I say, go for it.”

“ _Yes_ ,” John breathes, “God, yes.” He wraps his arms all the way around her and squeezes, holding her close to his chest, “But what about you and _your_ happiness? Do you care enough for Sherlock to let him into our hearts, home, and bed?”

“I wouldn’t be offering otherwise,” she says with a hint of her usual sass.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

With another hug and a kiss to Mary’s cheek, John is out the door. A split-second later he’s back, poking his head around the doorframe to smile at his soon-to-be wife. “Mary?” he says. “Thank you.”

“Go on, now,” she says with a laugh, at the same time making shooing gestures with her hands. “Get out of here.”

Chuckling to himself, John shuts the door and, with a new spring in his step, moves to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab. He has a consulting-detective to sweep off his feet, after all.

* * *

Sherlock prowls restlessly through the flat, his dressing-gown billowing out behind him like a superhero’s cloak. He’s nervous, a novel sensation for the self-proclaimed (high-functioning) sociopath. When he’s nervous, he paces—and the reason for his nervous pacing is John Watson, who’s due to arrive any minute for his dancing lesson.

Not for the first time, Sherlock curses himself for a thrice-damned fool for doing this to himself; for agreeing to teach John how to dance in time for his wedding. Why put himself through the exquisite torture of having John in his arms—close enough to touch, to _kiss_ —yet being unable to act on his feelings and profess his love?

Sherlock can’t remember a time when he hasn’t loved John Watson. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t love at first sight; that meeting in the lab at Bart’s had been brief and over far too soon. But the next night, it hadn’t taken Sherlock long to fall for John, from the moment he—John, that is—leapt at the chance to join Sherlock at a crime scene. And the rest, as they say, is history.

There’s the sound of a door opening below, followed by footsteps on the stairs. “Sherlock?”

“I’m just coming, John!” calls Sherlock. He winces at the unintentional innuendo of his greeting, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“So how do you want to do this?” John asks Sherlock when he appears.

His mind is still in the gutter, so it takes Sherlock a moment to understand John’s meaning. “You need to know how to follow your partner’s lead before you can lead yourself,” he says after a pause, which he uses to gather his thoughts. “Therefore, to start with, I should lead and take you through the steps as if you were Mary. Once you’ve mastered _her_ part, then we can switch and I’ll follow your lead instead. How does that sound?”

“You’ve really given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” John compliments him.

“You and Mary deserve perfection on your special day,” Sherlock answers.

John remains silent, like he’s contemplating something he’s not yet ready to reveal. “Let’s get started, then,” he says at last.

With trepidation, Sherlock starts the music and approaches John, who offers up his arms to be positioned where appropriate. Sherlock takes John’s right hand and holds it at shoulder-height; his right hand he moves to cup John’s shoulder blade. Swallowing visibly, enough for Sherlock to see his Adam’s apple bob, John places his left hand at the seam of Sherlock’s shoulder. They’re now ready to begin.

Sherlock steps forward with his left foot, prompting John to step back with his right foot. Next Sherlock steps diagonally with his right foot; John mirrors him, stepping diagonally with his left foot. Their feet are now a shoulder’s width apart. Sherlock brings his feet back together, and John copies him. Now Sherlock steps back with his right foot, retreating in the face of John stepping forward with his left foot. He then steps diagonally with his left foot, John matching him move for move; their feet are again a shoulder’s width apart. Stepping in time, they finish as they started—together.

“Very good, John,” says Sherlock, their hands slowly falling back to their sides. “Now that you have the basics down, perhaps it’s time to add a few flourishes. Maybe even a dip, at the end.”

They resume, for the most part dancing in silence, until John knows the steps by rote. Gradually, though, they add more complicated turns and pivots, and finish with Sherlock dipping John until his head practically brushes the floor.

In that moment, time seems to stand still. Sherlock freezes with his arms locked around John, supporting his body’s weight so that he doesn’t fall. He’s staring up at Sherlock with such absolute trust in his eyes, and a fondness Sherlock is unused to, that he can no longer resist temptation. Closing the distance between them, Sherlock brushes his lips against John’s—once, twice, three times. Without knowing how, they’re standing upright again, and John’s arms are twined around Sherlock’s neck.

Reason returns to him and Sherlock abruptly wrenches away, trying to extricate himself from John’s grip. But when Sherlock moves to run, John stops him with a single hand on his wrist. “Come sit with me,” John cajoles. His pleading expression belies the thinly-veiled command behind his words; Sherlock obeys.

“John, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, unable to meet his (former) friend’s eyes.

“Are you saying you want to take back the kiss?” John asks him.

“Don’t _you_ want me to?”

“C’mere,” John says in lieu of answering him, putting an arm about Sherlock and guiding his head down to rest on his shoulder. The silence that settles over them is only slightly tense as John strokes Sherlock’s mop of curls and runs his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm in an effort to calm him. Once Sherlock has matched his breaths to John’s and is relaxed, John deems it time to speak. “I’m not mad, Sherlock,” he says. “ _I’m not_. I know how you feel and how much that kiss meant to you. And I wanted to say that it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“John,” Sherlock whines, a heartbreaking sound that comes from the back of his throat. “You’re getting married soon. What right do I have to go around kissing you?”

“Every right, if you’re in love with me. Are you?”

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “What do _you_ think?” is his acerbic reply.

“I need to hear you say it, Sherlock. Will you? For me, please.”

“All right, all right.” Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in love with you, John Watson. There. Are you satisfied, now?” When there’s no answer, Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John— _really_ looks at him, a proper and in-depth examination of the man he’s dedicated the last few years to protecting. An explanation of his behavior is required, he realizes upon finishing. “I’m sorry, John,” he says to start with. “Sorry that I’m being such a brat about this. But you have to understand—I’ve been in love with you since practically Day One. All the signs were there; you just didn’t see. And I wanted you to see for yourself, without my having to point out the obvious. But instead, you took every opportunity to declare your heterosexuality. And at full volume, too, I might add—”

“And I take full responsibility for that,” says John, smiling sheepishly when Sherlock glares at him for interrupting.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” Sherlock murmurs, almost to himself, “without a hope of my feelings being returned. Do you know what that’s like? How it can wear on a person and make him bitter and even more cynical of the world?”

“I know a little something of the pangs of unrequited love,” John replies evenly.

“Then forgive me for being a tad incredulous when the deepest and most desperate desire of my heart is presented to me on a silver platter!”

John takes Sherlock in his arms again, holding and rocking him like a newborn babe. “I’m sorry, too, Sherlock,” he says. “I didn’t realize the depths of your feelings or what you’d been carrying around by yourself all this time. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere! Can you at least trust in that?”

“I trust you, John, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I always have.”

“Then let me take care of you, for once. Please?”

“What did you have in mind?” Sherlock’s voice is muffled from being buried in John’s shoulder.

“I just want to hold you. Can I do that?”

“You’re already holding me, John.” There’s a smile in Sherlock’s voice where there wasn’t before.

“I _mean_ , like this—” With Sherlock still in his arms, John lays down on the couch so that his head is on the armrest and Sherlock’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps his arms more securely around Sherlock, and once they’re settled and silence has fallen again, John speaks. “I love you, too, y’know,” he says. “I haven’t said that before, and I probably should have. I love you, Sherlock. I’m sorry for denying my feelings so long, and subsequently denying _you_. I never meant to hurt you, Sherlock, you have to believe me.”

“I do, John.”

“I don’t have an explanation; leastways, not one that I care to own. But I wanted to tell you, Sherlock, I’ve probably loved you for as long as you’ve loved me. Or did you think I went around shooting cabbies for kicks?”

“You’re an addict, John; you crave a certain kind of lifestyle. How was I to know that you shooting that cabbie made me special?” John’s prepared to argue Sherlock’s point, when he catches his eye and they both burst into guffaws of laughter. Once they’ve quieted down, Sherlock asks the obvious question that’s been preying on his mind, “What about Mary?”

“It was her who suggested that I bring you into our life together.”

“So she’s all right with sharing you?” Sherlock is clearly skeptical.

“She loves you, too, Sherlock,” John assures him, “Maybe not in the same way or to the same extent that I do. But her love is no less true than mine.”

Sherlock snuggles closer to John in answer. “I love her, as well,” he says slowly, weighing his words with the utmost care and consideration. “But more because _you_ love her than out of any romantic feelings on my part. My first loyalty will always be to you, John—I love you more than life itself.”

“I know, Sherlock,” John whispers in a choked-sounding voice, close to tears at Sherlock’s heartfelt declaration. “God, do I ever know _that_. You proved it when you jumped off Bart’s to protect me.”

Sherlock rolls over, arranging himself atop John’s chest, and looks down at him. “I wouldn’t have jumped if I’d had any other choice. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Sherlock, I do. Now c’mere.” He drags Sherlock further down on top of him until their lips are touching. They exchange lazy kisses until their limbs grow heavy and a feeling of drowsiness settles over them. Sherlock wants to fight it, but he subsides when John mumbles, “Sleep, luv. I’ll still be here when you wake.”

And he is. (Not that Sherlock doubted him.)

“So,” Mary asks when John gets home later ( _much_ later). “Did you do it?”

“You mean, did I do _it_?” he corrects her, smiling. “And yes, I did—if you’re referring to me confessing my love to Sherlock, that is. If you’re referring to the other thing, then no, I didn’t. That can wait until we’re ready—all three of us.”

“Such a gentleman, John,” says Mary, gently teasing. She kisses him, a light peck on the lips. “And I love you for it.”

* * *

Sherlock slowly blinks awake. He’s in his room at Baker Street; he knows that much. But something’s different, if he can only put his finger on what. . . When he tries to sit up, he’s prevented from doing so by an arm across his chest: a tanned, hairy, distinctly _masculine_ arm. Turning his head slowly to the right, he finds John next to him, sleeping peacefully on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow. On Sherlock’s other side is Mary, who’s watching him expectantly, as if in anticipation of his freak-out.

“You’re getting married today,” he remarks dully.

“No, Sherlock,” she says almost sternly, before breaking into a tender smile and brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “ _We’re_ getting married today—all three of us.” She then presses her lips firmly to his brow.

John stirs in the interim and, following Mary’s example, tilts Sherlock’s head to kiss him square on the mouth. “Morning, luv,” he whispers in a throaty growl, smiling against Sherlock’s lips at the full-body shudder he gives in response to John’s greeting.

Sherlock feels his eyes unexpectedly sting at the open affection—the naked desire—he’s being shown by the two people he most cares about. Since getting together with John and Mary, he’s found himself more easily overwhelmed, his emotions just under the surface where before they had been successfully buried. For so long the attention he received was negative, and any tears he shed had been ones of sorrow, but now. . .

“I’ve never been so happy,” whispers Sherlock, even as his eyes overflow with tears—this time, ones of joy at the love he’s allowed to openly express and receive in turn—that spill down his cheeks.

John and Mary kiss away his tears, all the while touching Sherlock in some small way; practically smothering Sherlock in an effort to remind him of their love and reaffirm their commitment to him, as well as the life they’ve built together in only a scant few months. Although John and Mary will be the ones to face each other across a church aisle, Sherlock is no less a part of their family, and they don’t need a flimsy piece of paper to tell them that. He is their partner for life: in sickness and in health, to have and to hold, until death do they part—all three of them.


End file.
